I read a book a couple of years ago.
Before, I read about 3 or 4 every week. I read mountains of stuff every day online.
I rarely watch TV, or video, haven’t been in a cinema in years, don’t download ebooks or PDFs, have little desire to be entertained by a contiguous mind stepping me through a long sequence of scenes and characters and plot development. I love grazing.
Don’t miss the substantial literary meals I used to take. There is so much online. I have about maybe 50 books left in the house. I rarely notice or touch them. They used to be my pride and joy.
I knew myself as a long distance reader. I buried myself in the world created by a writer just for me.
My life is so full I don’t need books now. I suppose some will pity me for that.
My own books develop slowly. If they are not published before I die so be it. I deliver bits and pieces.
Life goes on. Magnificently some days. In futility some days. Its all to be written about. But a writer is not constrained to a book.
Status updates are literature. Yes, Mavis they are.